we posture
ourselves-against
throughout the
whole of our days.
A leaning into
a knowing
of the darkling pain that
we have seen in the suffering
all about us.
We sense the building
of the storm in the still
small recesses of our
intuiting cells.
Somewhere in the gut
a signal goes out to
the pineal -
and all along
its worrisome trail
every corpuscle
moves to the pulse
of the energy wave.
Alarm is set on its
head, anxiety is notified
to prepare. The whole
of all we are is poised
to begin to fight,
to plan a flight,
or steady its entire
depths and freeze.
Smelling the microbes
of rose-scent in the dark
morning air, I know
my love
has bought me roses
before I see them on
the table in the pitcher;
a tear builds in my soul
and a smile dons my face
at that same time as
the rose is felt.
Somewhere in the
cells at the back of my
knee and in the rest of this
body that has learned to run
in the early morning
hours absence of light,
a split second shout
of concern goes out
and an ankle knows
to pull this way -
avoiding a hole
the eyes have
not yet seen.
Someone runs this
life at the expense of my
own self;
the ego is a landlord
with a limited contract.
When down in the valleys
below the mountain
of my life
a wind is brewing off
the coast,
some piece in me here -
far, far away -
knows to gather
its many resources
and hunker down
holding out against
the storm.
It is the way
one person senses
to avoid another;
the way we feel
it is time to call
a long lost friend -
not knowing the
desperation in their life
was screaming out for
help.
This unknowing knowing
drives the ship.
It matters
if we learn to hear the
silent cry. It makes
all of the difference if
we listen to this subtle
breath.
All of these
words are simple
filings being
pulled to the
shape of the magnetic
waves beneath.
Can we ever learn that
everything
that happens is
laced with patterns
from unseen forces.
Can we ever
allow ourselves to feel
the pull of the unseen
and know that it figures in
to all that we live out.
The orange juice
hits the glass as it
spills over the edge
of the ceramic pitcher
because
of a gravity I can not see.
The side-winding river
cuts its banks at just
the right curve -
created over time,
but unknown to me -
when it needs to flood
itself toward the all
consuming ocean
far, far away.
The hand that
writes these postures into
all of life only asks
we feel for the shifts
and trust
the unknowing known-ness of
its ongoing telling of
the tale that is really
quite beyond our own
simple props.
Fear not. Feel for what
is going on beyond the
ken of sight. Feel for
the direction
that is written
on the wind.
Everything
is a leaping fall
into the great synaptic
cleft of the ONE that is
writing the wind.
How shall we hold
ourselves
out against the storm;
against the brooding gap
of the unknown knowing
in everything. Can we
believe in the surrender of
leaping fall called trust.
Great image from blog at: http://www.unknownfieldsdivision.com/blog/?p=42
No comments:
Post a Comment